Wait Till I Get Home
by bethalaina
Summary: Leaving early had never sounded so good!  Hermione couldn't wait to get home tonight.  Choose your pairing inside!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This was originally posted in December of 2007 on my LiveJournal as a sort of "Choose Your Own Adventure" story, a Christmas gift to my friendslist there. The short beginning is the same for any story, but instead of skipping to the next chapter, use the chapter drop-down menu to choose which paring you'd like to see. The options are Viktor, Charlie, and Severus. (There are a couple more options with the story on LJ, but the ratings are high enough that I'm not including them here. If you're interested, there's a link to my LJ on my info page.) Enjoy!

Hermione kicked off her heels and sank into her cushy desk chair. There was nothing worse than a Ministry faculty meeting on a month when the Minister's campaign wasn't going well. He believed that the low votes were based on the Ministry's performance—not his own. In her job as an archivist, Hermione knew that her work didn't affect typical Wizarding society much, but she had always hated destructive criticism and felt like the Minister was speaking directly to her.

She rolled her head to try and lessen the growing tension. This day seemed like it would never end. For starters, it was the last day the Ministry would be open before Christmas, and everyone was anxious to begin the holidays. This morning some papyrus scrolls she had been excitedly anticipating had arrived from Egypt—and she'd realized that the hieroglyphics were in a different dialect from the one she'd learned. Hermione would have to do enough research to teach herself how to read them before she could study the spells contained within. She had written to Madam Pince—sadly, the Hogwarts library was better equipped than the Ministry's—to ask to borrow a book for the research. Shortly after, she had realized that Hogwarts had dismissed for the holidays three days earlier and Madam Pince had probably already left to visit her mum in Wales. She had gone to her favorite café for lunch, only to discover that they'd quit serving her favorite dish. And then she'd attended the depressing, stressful meeting.

This day could not possibly end soon enough. Hermione mumbled a fervent prayer to Merlin for a relaxing evening, and buried herself in a pile of loose papers from Scotland. At least she could decipher the spells and legends of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

Fifteen minutes into her work, a knock sounded on her door. Hermione groaned: what now? Harry stuck his head in. "A lot of us are cutting out early; want to leave? The Minister stormed out for the day after the meeting. Moody said he's probably going to kiss some babies or whatnot."

She shuffled the papers together and dropped them into her top drawer, then thanked Harry and walked down to the foyer with him. Leaving early had never sounded so good! She couldn't wait to get home tonight.


	2. Viktor

Two hours, a steamy bath, and a grilled cheese sandwich later, Hermione was curled in her favorite broken-in armchair with a shedding cat and an unopened novel on her lap. Instead of reading, she was staring into the crackling fire, contemplating her life.

How had she wound up nearly thirty, with Crookshanks the only man in her life? Lately she preferred staying home with him than going out with her friends, anyway. She always seemed to be the odd number in the group: the others came in pairs. Harry and Ginny, Neville and Luna, Ron and his flavor of the month. She had even skipped most of the Weasley get-togethers recently, where she had always been a member of the family. Her big Christmas plans this year involved sharing a can of tuna with Crookshanks and hoping the lazy cat would chase the new ball she'd wrapped and put under her tree. The small package looked terribly lonely by itself under the large artificial tree.

She should have bought a smaller tree, put it up on an end table.

Two Christmases ago, she had watched the sparkling lights from the tree dance across Viktor Krum's bare skin. They had picked out the oversized tree together, laughing, kissing, with the solitary purpose of making love underneath. They had strung too many lights on it, making it look overloaded and awkward—but it had been beautiful to watch him move underneath with just the tree illuminating the room. The memories forced a knot into her throat. Twelve nights that year they'd loved and laughed under the tree: "The twelf days of Christmas," Viktor had joked, his eyes like molten chocolate, hot and loving, with dancing colors lighting them.

Christmas morning they'd Apparated to Bulgaria and opened gifts with Viktor's mum and dad, and then they'd gone to the Weasley's for the afternoon. Hermione remembered helping Molly with dinner and standing by the window, watching Viktor playing Quidditch with the Weasleys. Molly had to shake her arm to get her attention back to dinner. She'd laughed at Hermione and her fascination with Viktor. "Oh, to be that young and that in love again!" Arthur, sitting at the table, had thrown a dinner roll at her, and Hermione remembered thinking that she and Viktor would be like that someday, still loving, still teasing.

But then, last fall, they'd started fighting more and more often. Sometimes the problem was silly stuff, nitpicky irritating things, like towels on the bathroom floor instead of on the hooks, or little globs of peanut butter in the jelly jar from him using one spoon for both. He would complain about her books being piled all over the place and her bras cluttering the shower rod. Eventually the fights got bigger—he was gone too much for work; he said she spent more time with the Weasleys than with him. And then, right before Christmas, she asked him to leave.

Last Christmas, she had unscrewed the tiny light bulbs on the tree one by one, and for every single bulb she cried a dozen tears—remembering, as she did tonight, the colors dancing across his pale skin, remembering his laughter as they picked out the biggest tree. She had boxed up all the gifts, unopened, and shoved the box in the attic. She had eaten half a gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream while a belligerent Crookshanks mourned the Christmas tuna she forgot to give him.

Hermione sighed and stared into the lights she'd charmed back into their sockets this year, as Crookshanks shifted positions, purring and rubbing more ginger hair onto her old red shirt and ratty sweatpants. She had still loved him so much last year, despite the fighting, but she'd sent back every letter unopened, screened her Floo calls—damned stubbornness and idiotic pride. She still loved him, still ached inside every time she saw his face in a magazine. Still wept agonizing crystal tears from her heart every time she glimpsed a Christmas tree. Damn him.

_Time,_ Hermione thought, wrapping her excruciating blanket of self-pity more tightly around her, _for more ice cream_.

However, as she struggled to remove a flesh-piercing Crookshanks from her lap, she heard a knock at her door. Exactly what she needed tonight, after her terrible day at work and her heartbreaking rendezvous with the past tonight—company.

When she opened the door and saw Viktor standing on her front steps, Hermione wondered dizzily if Crookshanks had drugged her grilled cheese sandwich. Surely he wasn't standing there—she'd conjured him up with her lamentation. Surely he'd never looked this delicious in person. Surely he wouldn't still want to see her. Surely—

"Hi," he said softly, looking down and shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his faded, worn jeans. "I can come in, please?"

Hermione didn't say anything, just stepped back to let him in. He stepped inside, and she stared, amazed to see him back in her house—_their_ house, really, they'd picked it out together—amazed to see him again, period.

Crookshanks shot to Viktor like a fuzzy streak and begin rubbing his head against the scuffed leather of Viktor's boots, like he'd been there only yesterday. Damned traitor cat. Hermione resisted the urge to kick him. Crookshanks, not Viktor—although she was tempted to kick him, too, just because she still loved him so much after all this time.

Viktor turned those irresistible eyes on her, sweet chocolate mixed with sadness. "Has been year today, Herm-own-ninny. Vill you talk to me now? Please? Year is long time, effen longer vithout you."

She took a deep breath and bit down on the sob that tried to escape. He was right. He'd been gone a year, today. Was that why everything went wrong today? She answered him in a whisper: "I'll listen, Viktor."

When they went to the living room, he sank down onto the sofa in the same spot he always sat; Hermione returned to her chair. After so long without him there, why did it still feel unnatural not to sit beside him? Not to touch him?

She watched Viktor's eyes as he gazed at the tree. She could see the sadness, the memories she'd been stumbling through earlier, in their onyx depths, sparkled with the same colors she'd watched as he moved inside of her. And then he looked at her and smiled, a poignant curl of his sensuous lips. "You vear my shirt."

She looked down at the black DURMSTRANG blazoned across her chest. "Yeah."

Viktor sighed loudly, a frustrated burst of air, and ran his hands through his hair. It was longer than she remembered and Hermione ached to touch it. "Damn it! Is so awkvard, this trying to talk. All I vant is to…to…"

He paused and scrubbed his palms across his cheeks; Hermione realized he was crying and felt her own scorching tears drawing rivers down her face. His hurt—her own—his beautiful face, even his beloved voice and sweet accent caught Hermione up in a torrent of emotion. He sucked in a deep breathe and started again, with the remnants of tears drawing gravel into his voice.

"I write to you, sveetheart. I try and call. I vanted come home, I vant to fix our problems. But you vill not listen, vill not let me back in your heart. Has been a year, and I still loff you, I still vant to come home and fix things. Tell me, do you see somevone else now?"

She shook her head. "No, Viktor…It's just me and Crooks against the world now."

He gave her a wavering, watery smile. "Let me come be against the vorld vith you and Crooks." He scratched the purring cat—who was, of course, curled up on his lap—between the ears. "I think he vant me to come home."

"But…" she sighed, "I don't want to live a life where we fight all the time. For months that was all we did. I can't handle it again. This past year has been so…peaceful."

His eyes tormented her, gazing deep into hers, and she felt like they were reading the fine print on her soul. "Peaceful, Herm-own-ninny, yes, but satisfying? Fulfilling? Fun? Happy?" His eyes left her face, and she felt empty and alone again, with a heart and soul laid bare to him. She watched him staring at the tree and didn't answer him.

After several moments had passed in silence, Viktor swiveled those searching orbs back to her. "All couple haff rough patches, sveetheart. They vork through them. Giff me another chance. If ve fight, ve vork through it. Ve…vhat it is? Ve prom-ize." He paused, thinking hard, and she knew he was emotional—his English was better than this, except when he was hurting inside. "Compromise. Right? Ve can do that."

He was right, damn the man, and she was sobbing into the chair arm. She wanted him home. She didn't want to spend this Christmas with only Crookshanks and ice cream; she never wanted another Christmas without Viktor, without his skin reflecting the tree lights, without him stealing Christmas cookie dough, without him squealing like a little boy over his gifts and shining with pride as she opened hers. She wanted him home.

"Yes, we can do that," she murmured, and cried harder as he scooped her up in his arms, the soft fabric of his sweater erasing her tears. He kissed her cheeks, then her lips.

"I loff you. Haff loffed you all along, sveetheart. Thank you."

Hermione laughed through her tears and kissed him again. "I love you too."

He smiled at her, a real, solid smile, the one she loved, where his face lit up and his eyes sparkled. "I think that Crooks is not so glad to haff me home now."

Hermione looked over at the miffed cat, who sat under the tree arrogantly licking his paw. "Well, he'll have to get used to it." She winked at Viktor. "Besides, he's in our spot."


	3. Charlie

By the time Hermione made it home, the sky had started to deposit fat white flakes on the world. She slipped into her favorite jeans and softest sweater and flopped down on her couch with a blanket. She contemplated starting a fire, but her bad mood nixed that idea. She really just felt like lying on the couch and pouting.

A loud knock on the door drove Hermione out of sleep; she stumbled groggily to the door. It was nighttime now, and bursts of snowflakes swirled around a grinning Charlie Weasley, juggling several dishes.

Dazed and still not quite awake, she stepped back to allow him inside. He hurried toward her kitchen, juggling his load, and deposited it on the counter before she managed to say hello.

"Hey! Sorry to barge in, and it looks like I woke you up, but it's freezing out there! Harry told Ginny that you'd had a rough day, and Ginny told Mum, and you know what that means." His laughing eyes, Hermione thought, would make even Moaning Myrtle smile. "She sent her cure-all: a cherry pie and an unidentifiable casserole. And some eggnog—she just made it in honor of Christmas. She was going to bring it herself, but the weather's getting pretty nasty, so I offered. Thought I'd like to see you, too, since I've only been back from the dragon reservation a couple of days."

She smiled at him. They'd become pretty good friends during the past few years of Weasley gatherings, starting with Harry and Ginny's wedding, when he'd been the groomsman to escort her. She'd been nervous: seldom confident about her looks, especially in dress robes and dangerously high heels beside beautiful Ginny. Charlie's jokes had calmed her down. "Your company is a better cure for a bad day than any food, Charlie…especially the unidentifiable kind."

"I'm glad you think so," he answered ruefully, "because I'm gonna have to ask if I can stick around awhile. With the wind blowing so hard, I'm afraid I'll lose an elbow or something trying to Apparate home." He winked at her. "Apparition is not exactly my specialty. I'd rather ride a dragon, but the reservation frowns on me bringing them home."

She giggled at the understatement; his boss would probably poo a brick if Charlie hijacked a Chinese Fireball. "Sure, you can go on to the living room and settle in. Want some of this pie and eggnog?"

"Great!"

When she made it to the living room, Charlie had a fire going. As Hermione watched the light glinting off his flaming hair, she marveled at how much better she felt now. She doubted it had anything to do with the nap; Charlie always had that effect on her. He was just so much fun and so easy to talk to, so comfortable to be with.

He turned and saw her at the doorway and hurried to take the tray from her. "I hope you don't mind that I started the fire. I'm pretty sure it's getting colder by the minute."

She curled up on one end of the couch with her eggnog and Charlie took the other. After the basic chitchat about work and gossip about family, they began trading Christmas stories and laughter over the various Weasley antics that had occurred over the years.

"Four years ago, Bill and Percy got into a fight, and I went out to a pub with Bill to help him cool off. My big brother can drink me under the table, easily, and they had the eggnog flowing pretty freely that night. I'm not certain, but I'm pretty sure he dared me to get a tattoo. At least, the next day I woke up with a dragon done in ink and a _killer_ headache. And Mum made me eat a huge breakfast. She did that little clucking thing she does, you know?"

"The 'you-should-have-known-better one? Yeah," she answered. "So where's the tattoo at? I've never seen it."

He winked and suddenly his grin turned wicked; Hermione's stomach sprouted several dozen butterflies. "Ask nicely and I'll show you."

"Um…Can we get back to eggnog stories?" she replied, shoving her curiosity away and ordering her pulse to slow.

"Sure thing. How about this? The year Ginny was six," Charlie laughed, "she got into Mum and Dad's 'special' eggnog—the alcoholic version Mum always pretended didn't exist. I'm pretty sure she was tipsy for about three days before Mum realized she wasn't just being typically silly. She sure was a goof as a little kid, trying to keep up with the rest of us, I guess."

By this time, they had made their way towards each other until they were side-by-side. Charlie slipped his arm behind her, easily and comfortably, and Hermione was suddenly much more aware of him.

"I used to wonder how you were going to fit in with our family when Mum and Dad, you know, sort of adopted you and Harry. You seemed so serious, afraid of breaking the rules, kind of." He grinned, and Hermione wanted to count his freckles all of a sudden. "Guess I know better now." His grin faded and his voice dropped lower, softer. "I think you might just be more trouble than the rest of us put together."

Hermione's heart pummeled against her ribcage as if it could escape, seconds before Charlie's lips captured hers in a slow but ardent kiss. Heat dripped down her veins, seeming to stem from the sweet taste of his tongue, as if Charlie were breathing melted honey into her. This was _Charlie_, her friend, someone to laugh with—but then, why was she suddenly aware of him as a man, aware of the raw power in the arms around her, aware of the clean smell soap and his cologne? Why did she want to pull him back when his lips released hers, leaving her with the feeling that for a few seconds she'd been whole…and now wasn't?

Eyes closed, lips parted slightly, Hermione murmured, "Was that the eggnog?"

"Nah," Charlie answered seriously, just as softly. "Mum hasn't added liquor to it since Ginny finished her twelve step program."

Hermione snorted, then giggled. "But, Charlie—"

"No, Hermione, I'll tell you what that was. That was a guy kissing a girl he's been nuts about since his baby sister's wedding, when that girl was so damned nervous and so damned beautiful that he almost forgot the words to the toast he spent three hours writing for his sister." He leaned in closer to her and brushed his lips across hers again like fairy wings. "That was a guy kissing the woman who's somehow become his best friend."

Hermione, at a loss for words, traced her hand up his cheek and to the nape of his neck to tangle in his hair, and then she pulled him down and kissed him again. Suddenly, the day that had felt all wrong transformed into a night that felt perfect, from the fluttering snowflakes in the window to the man in her arms. In an instant, Hermione was home—in a way she'd never expected to be.


	4. Severus

Unfortunately—although in keeping with the rest of her day—Hermione did not quite make it home. The wind had picked up, blowing in a snowstorm, and Apparition was difficult. When Hermione reappeared, a couple of blocks from her house, her day got much worse.

She crashed directly into Severus Snape.

"Really, Miss Granger," he chided, "haven't you passed your Apparition exam yet? Have you misplaced any body parts while you were at it?"

"In case you haven't noticed, Professor," she replied coldly, "the weather is getting nasty."

Severus was quiet for a moment, gazing at her. "Forgive me. I have noticed; I was just annoyed by your, ah, crash. As a matter of fact, I'm struggling to find a way back to Hogwarts, since I can't Apparate to the entrance. I cannot even Floo into Hogsmeade, because the network crashed earlier today."

Hermione's heart and her better judgment did battle inside of her. She did not like Severus; she never had. She did, however, respect him a great deal, and she was too soft-hearted to leave someone out in a snowstorm with no way home.

"Professor," she began slowly, "I live nearby, and you're welcome to wait out the storm at my house if you'd like." She waited nervously: afraid he'd accept, and afraid he wouldn't.

His dark eyes flickered toward hers, perfectly unreadable. "Thank you, Miss Granger," he answered stiffly. "I would very much appreciate that."

Somehow, Hermione found herself learning a complicated card game from Severus in front of a roaring fire. More surprisingly, she discovered herself laughing—and most astonishing of all, so was he.

In their third game, she beat him, and he declared his lesson a success. "I think, Hermione," he said, "that this is the only thing I ever taught you, despite your years as my student at Hogwarts."

"No," she answered, "that isn't true; I learned a lot from you."

He shook his head. "Anything you learned in my classes, you could have learned from books."

"A lot of it I did. Shall we play another hand of cards?"

They chatted amicably throughout the game, and Hermione realized that she wasn't nervous anymore. She was enjoying his company.

And then he said something that shocked her. "I'd like to tell you something, if you won't repeat it to anyone." She promised not to, and he went on, saying, "I apologize if I've seemed like a difficult teacher. It's just…it's just my nature, I suppose."

"Professor—"

"Severus."

"Severus, I have to disagree. Perhaps it's your nature in the classroom, but here, tonight, you've been very warm."

He gazed at her, and something sparked in his eyes. At that same instant, Hermione felt a curious jolt in her stomach. Perhaps…awareness? Of this man, whom she wasn't sure she even liked? But then, he was a man she deeply respected—was a feminine awareness of him so unusual?

For a moment, he seemed to be at a loss for words. Finally, Severus said, "May I…Would you have dinner with me this weekend? Perhaps Saturday?"

Surprised, without thinking, Hermione replied, "Like a date?" Embarrassed, she watched the faintest of blushes kiss his cheekbones, and she had her answer. Before he spoke, she quickly added, "I'd be happy to."

For the first time ever, Hermione watched as a smile of delight crossed Severus' face—granted, it was a small smile, but it was still the first time he smiled for her.

Years later, when she asked her husband what made him ask her to dinner, Severus would tell Hermione, "You were the first person in years to think I was warm. You made me warm, and I wanted to share that heat. You felt like home."

Thank goodness for home.


End file.
